


The Magpie Song

by aldiara



Category: Alles was zaehlt, Lucifer (Comic), The Sandman
Genre: Alles was zählt - Freeform, Angst and Humor, Character Study, Crossover, Drabble Sequence, Gen, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-01
Updated: 2010-10-01
Packaged: 2017-10-12 08:37:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/122994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldiara/pseuds/aldiara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten glimpses of Roman Wild.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Magpie Song

  


**One for Sorrow**

  


Roman returns from the park feeling drained to his very marrow. Secretly, he hates that tree; can’t help but feel that it gluttons on grief, soaking up Diana’s essence as she spills across its roots.

Deniz comes to meet him when he slumps against the wall, made boneless by the echoes of that senseless, wrenching loss. He says nothing, merely reaches out to brush the hair out of Roman’s face, then curves his hands firmly around his back, gathering him in. Roman blindly turns his face into the warmth of his lover’s neck, shudders a sigh, and goes to pieces.

~~~

**Two for Joy**

Roman loves the urgency with which Deniz seeks his lips, without the smallest hint of coyness; the way he’s all over his mouth, nibbling and licking, slipping his tongue in with a pleased little moan that melts Roman to butter.

Deniz kisses like every second of it is new and wondrously addictive, lush lips brush-painting adoration on his skin, and Roman simply can’t contain the laughter that bubbles up and out of him, over into Deniz’s questing, hungry mouth; testimony of his delight in this boy who can’t get enough of him, this boy he already loves too much for prudence.

~~~

  


**Three for a Girl**

  


“Don’t you notice anything?” Annette asks briskly, not looking at him. Roman freezes.

“What should I notice?”

“I don’t know, I have no idea how it works for men! Don’t you notice anything... after?”

He shakes his head, ping-pongs the question back and deflects until they reach the only conclusion that it’s safe to reach.

What Roman doesn’t tell her – what he’ll take to his grave – is how sore he is, and how strange her breasts felt, moving against his back; how he couldn’t help screaming when he came, and how she’ll find that her black strap-on has mysteriously disappeared.

~~~

  


**Four for a Boy**

  


The deep thrum of bass is muted in the alleyway behind the club. Roman can feel it as he stumbles against the wall, coordination shot to hell from too many Caipirinhas and the enticing feel of skin underneath the silver mesh tank of the boy before him.

He’s seventeen and grungily beautiful in combat boots and torn jeans; in the errant flicker of a street lamp, his hair looks blue. “What do you want?” he whispers, voice like smoke and spices.

“Make me forget.”

The boy nods, unsurprised, and leans in to kiss him. “I can do that.”

Roman believes him.

~~~

  


**Five for Silver**

  


The very air tastes different up on the deceptively moderate height of the podium: like absinthe, sweet and intoxicating, a flighty counterpart to the heavy disc of metal resting cool and solid against his chest.

He waves, smiling, and the crowd goes wild. The air is thick with roses and teddy bears, but there are no familiar faces in the stands: no friends, or parents; certainly no one else. For a fleeting moment Roman Wild wonders why the love of strangers should be so easy to come by, while the hearts of those who matter stay ever out of reach.

~~~

  


**Six for Gold**

  


“What in the world,” asks Roman, blinking, “is this?”

Deniz shrugs innocently, though the corners of his mouth very clearly want to smile. Chocolate coins in gold wrapping. Strewn on the bed, the floor, the windowsills, and every available surface. There must be dozens of them. “Screw the championships, anyway,” Deniz announces. “A medal is a medal, right?”

He cocks his head, frowning suspiciously. “Dude, you’re not gonna cry, are you? ‘Cause if you are, I’m buying you a dress and calling you Romana.”

“Shut up,” says Roman, resolutely fighting an absurd urge to do just that, “and come here.”

~~~

  


**Seven for A Secret, Never To Be Told**

  


One day in June, when he was fourteen, Roman considered dying.

His mother sighed in distaste when the school rang about what they called “an unfortunate prank”, and his father said with mild reproach, “We warned you.” That afternoon, Roman sat for a long time on his bed, cradling his skates, idly dragging the razor-sharp blades against the pale blue veins on the inside of his left wrist, mesmerised by the cold yet soothing promise of the metal.

And then he stilled, frowning down at his hands, and said aloud – he didn’t know to whom – “You’d _like_ that, wouldn’t you.”

~~~

  


**Eight for Heaven**

  


Deniz gapes. “No way!”

“Yes.”

“Seriously?”

Above him, Roman nods, a small, wicked grin playing around his lips as he twists his hips slightly, pushing into him. Deniz moans.

“Show me!”

Roman’s eyes dance. “Demanding brat.”

Another leisurely thrust, then Roman takes a deep breath and starts to bend over. His back rounds and then rounds more, until the bent curve of it is impossibly tight, and finally, incredibly, Deniz can feel Roman’s lips close hot and wet over his cock, even as Roman continues to slide into him, torturously slow.

“Skater… flexibility,” he manages, in between dying. “Best. Thing. Ever.”

~~~

**Nine for Hell**

The twins watch from behind the mirrors, one bored, the other gloomily intent upon the shifting prisms of the world.

In one of them, a figure spins across a glassy expanse of white, lifts off, whirls, lands. Perfection. There is a pull around him: an eddy of jagged emotion, laced with darkness. Despair grunts, satisfied, and lifts her hooked ring.

Desire’s fingers are slender and strong around her wrist. “Not that one, sister.” Leaning forward, she examines the mirror with lazy appraisal, grinning as one finger trails the motion of the lonely dancer on the ice. “That’s one of mine.”

~~~

**Ten for the Devil’s Very Own Self**

Over the fifth drink, they talk about friends, and the absence thereof. The man who introduced himself as Lux shrugs idly, his hand brushing Roman’s.

“I find reliance on my fellow man” – a hint of humour there, dark and flash-fire – “a precarious gambit, at best. Be who you need to be, and make that suffice.”

Roman considers this, and shakes his head. “I couldn’t do that.”

Lux studies him keenly, one elegant eyebrow raised, and Roman shivers.

“No,” he says finally, and though there’s no compassion in the golden eyes, there is no judgement, either. “I don’t suppose you could.”


End file.
